


devil's after both of us

by midnightbikeride



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Amputation, Blood and Gore, Developing Relationship, Fighting, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, If I remember, Sanctuary, Sarcasm, Strangers to Lovers, Typical zombie stuff, Violence, Weapons, cross country travelling, enemies to friends to enemies and back again, if i'm feeling the angst for it, laura is bad at dialogue, more tags later probably, perhaps, traitors, wow that's an actual tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:50:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26620153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightbikeride/pseuds/midnightbikeride
Summary: "Dream's six rules on how to survive a zombie apocalypse when everyone you love thinks you’re dead and you’re not quite sure if you’ll make it out alive, but you can’t focus on that aspect, and at this point you don’t know why you’re still running and fighting because really, what’s waiting for you at the end? More death?"1. Never assume anything is dead2. Pack light and be prepared to move at a moment's notice3. Always monitor what’s around you. Threats could be anywhere4. It’s not like the movies - these things are freaking fast, but not very agile5. Zombies are slower during the day, but still just as deadly.6. Do NOT get attached to anyone.That last point was crucial to survival. There’s nothing like getting to know someone, growing attached, and then having your heart ripped out of your chest watching them get their heart ripped out of their chest.AKA the way too long, way too dumb Zombie Apocalypse AU no one asked for
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Kudos: 71





	devil's after both of us

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first fic for the MCYTber side of things, and tbh I'm really excited for it! I'm pouring my blood, sweat, and tears into this because I really want it to be good! Seriously, I pricked my finger on my computer, and I have no idea how that's possible.
> 
> This fic wouldn't be possible (I mean it would be, but it wouldn't be as good) without my beta enon! Any mistakes that there may be are fully my own dumb self, and not her fault.
> 
> Just as an FYI, please don't link my fic to Sock's comic on twitter. We're two different people and I'm allowed to have a story within the same realm of Zombie AU's. Thank you!
> 
> *Title from Curses by The Crane Wives*
> 
> Now sit back, relax, and enjoy!

It was hot and humid in Florida. The air sat heavy, clinging to his skin and bringing the weight of the whole world with it. Clay, more commonly known as "Dream" by his friends and those who followed him on social media, looked over the rows of suburban houses: hedges clipped and pruned, mailboxes upright, lawns neatly trimmed...and covered in blood. As Clay scanned his eyes across each house, he mentally went over the rules he'd created for surviving a zombie apocalypse:

"Dream's six rules on how to survive a zombie apocalypse when everyone you love thinks you’re dead and you’re not quite sure if you’ll even make it out alive, but you really can’t focus on that aspect, and at this point you don’t even know why you’re still running and fighting because really, what’s waiting for you at the end? More death, probably?"

  1. Never assume anything is dead
  2. Pack light and be prepared to move at a moment's notice
  3. Always monitor what’s around you. Threats could be anywhere
  4. It’s not like the movies - these things are freaking fast, but not very agile
  5. Zombies are slower during the day, but still just as deadly.
  6. Do NOT get attached to anyone.



That last point was crucial to survival. There’s nothing like getting to know someone, growing attached, and then having your heart ripped out of your chest watching them get _their_ heart ripped out of their chest. Slinging his backpack onto his arm, Clay checked the meager supplies he had left. Two water bottles, not terrible, can of sardines, can of tuna, three granola bars, and a roll of ace bandages. Altogether not too bad, but it wouldn’t last him more than three days - even with rationing. 

Dreading what he would have to do next, the man looked once more over the rows and rows of houses, trying to figure out which ones might be hiding a zombie, were already raided, or were safe. Skipping past the ones with broken windows, he finally settled on a gray house with a brick pathway leading up to the door. Clay was on high alert, nervous energy thrumming, whipping his head towards every sound that whispered with the wind. Wiping the sweat off his brow, he took a few steps towards the door, careful to watch where he was placing his feet in case there was a loose brick. 

He felt like he was the only person in the whole world, yet the hair on the back of his neck raised as if a hundred eyes were watching his every move. Reaching the front of the building, Clay grabbed the doorknob and turned it as slowly as he could, pushing it open with a little force. He took the knife out from the sheath strapped to his leg and nudged the door open even more, poking his head in to get a glimpse at what he’d be dealing with.

The wreckage was to be expected. Upturned furniture was splintered across the floor among the gleaming shards of glass from broken picture frames. When the breakout first happened, most people's responses were to stay inside with what little supplies they had in their houses. When items ran low, it was expected that a member of the family would go out and gather everything they could. Not knowing the full extent of the disease raging outside, the clueless family member would most certainly be attacked. 

The thing about getting bit is this: It takes a long time to know you’ve been bit. Too long. Clay knew this from experience- the groups he’d been in before, and the unfortunate outcomes of the members (which sparked rule number 6). Most people would forget they were even attacked- something from the poison in your system meant you forgot the experience in its entirety. So they'd travel home thinking they were safe, excited to get back to their houses. Little did they know, however, that they would be the reason for their own family’s demise. 

It took about 6-7 hours for the transformation to be complete: you would feel fine for the first hour, a little tired and nauseous for the next three. By the fifth hour, your body would be in tremendous pain due to the organs shutting down one by one. If you weren’t braindead by the sixth hour, you would most definitely be by the seventh. And as your poor, unsuspecting family slept in their beds, dreaming of sheep and lollipops or whatever else, your zombie-mind would be filled with nothing but the single desire to kill and satisfy your cravings. 

Clay guessed that’s what happened here. Most likely whatever suburban family who used to live in this neighborhood was long gone, or so he assumed. He entered the residence on light feet, knife gripped tightly in his hand, and crept around the house looking in every corner downstairs. He took note of every exit in case he needed to make a quick getaway, and made a mental note of which ones would help or hinder. Making his way back to the main entrance, the man took notice of the stairwell leading up to the second floor. No zombie would have the brains to climb the stairs, and he would’ve heard anything come down, so Clay didn’t bother to go up and look. 

Confident that nothing lurked in the building except for himself, he retraced his steps to the kitchen, opening cabinets to see what he could scrape together. Besides a moldy quarter loaf of bread, the shelves were completely bare and the boy couldn’t help but let out a small groan. Someone had been here before him and looted everything. Rats.

The distinct creak of a wooden floorboard caught his attention. Clay whipped his head around to see a boy around his age pointing a handgun straight at his head. With one fist still tightly wrapped around his knife, he slowly lifted his hands in the air.

“Drop it,” came the first spoken words from the stranger in front of him, though Clay couldn’t focus on the statement. Did he have a British accent? They were in Florida, so that probably couldn’t be right. He looked over the intruder, taking notice of the tattered blue shirt he wore and red hoodie wrapped around his waist. His black converse had duct tape around the soles which meant he had clearly been walking for a while. Bringing his eyes back up to the gun currently pointed at his face, Clay was shaken back to the present. 

“…What?” was all he could stammer out, his brain still trying to catch up. How could he not have heard someone coming up behind him? 

“Drop the bloody knife.” Yup, definitely British. 

“Drop your gun, I’ll drop my knife.”

“Why would I drop my gun and give you the chance to stab me?”

“Why would I drop my knife and give you the much easier chance to shoot me?”

“Touché… how about we both drop our weapons together. On three.”

“One… two… THREE,” Clay shouted. Neither one moved a muscle, both still staring at each other with clear distrust. “You were supposed to drop your gun.”

“I was waiting for you to drop your knife!”

“Yeah? Well why would I drop my knife when you could shoot me??” His voice raised, dangerously toeing a line between too loud and much too loud. Clay smelled them before he heard them, a dank, foul smell like expired cheese and death. Which, he supposed, was very much true as the creatures were actually dead. 

“You can’t tell me to drop my gun when you’re obviously still holding your knife!” The other boy was just as enraged, not focusing on the present moment and the situation they were in. 

“Shut up,” Clay briskly said in a hushed tone, worried that the zombies outside would hear the shouting. If they were lucky, the monsters would pass them by without starting trouble.

“Don’t tell me to shut up, I just met you—mmrgh!” Ignoring the chance that the stranger would shoot him, Clay took three long strides to where the man stood, grabbing him by the arm and clamping a hand around his mouth.. 

“I said, shut up,” he hissed again, letting the boy in his arms listen to the world around them. When he was certain that the brunet would be quiet, he slowly removed his hand from his mouth.

“What’re we going to do,” Cute Stranger (as Clay dubbed him in his head, or rather, C.S) asked in a low voice, waveringly. 

“I need to know if I can trust you, first.”

“Can we get out of this mess? Then I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I just want to make it out of here alive, as I’m sure you do too.” Clay weighed his options. One one hand, C.S could most definitely sacrifice him to be able to make it out alive, however, he genuinely could be a good person trying to help. 

He heard the groaning getting closer, and in a split second came to his decision. Grabbing C.S by the hand, he tugged him towards the nearest exit he noted down before: the sliding glass door leading from the kitchen to the backyard. 

“Let go of my hand,” C.S furiously whispered, tugging his wrist out from Clay’s grip. “I’m fully capable of running on my own.”

“Fine, but stay close,” Clay shot back, taking a running leap at the white picket fence that was the difference between death and a slightly lesser chance of death. Swinging a leg over the top of the wood, the man quickly made it over to the other side and looked back, ready to lend a helping hand to the other boy if need be. 

They both made it over the fence and starting sprinting in the opposite direction, weaving between houses and hedges to finally escape the suburban prison. They weren't sure how many zombies were on their tails, but neither was willing to look back and find out. The boys may have been strangers and didn't trust each other, but for the moment, they needed each other to survive. 

It was the two of them against the universe. 

  
  



End file.
